


Historical One Shots

by ColdWarSaint



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: 9/11, Bloodlust, British Empire, Death, Franco-Prussian War, Gandhi - Freeform, Gen, Historical, Historical References, Memory, One Shot, Roman Catholicism, Stalinist Russia, church, powerlust
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-25
Updated: 2017-04-26
Packaged: 2018-05-09 03:57:54
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 2,561
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5524517
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ColdWarSaint/pseuds/ColdWarSaint
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One shot looks into historical events from the perspective of the nations. Serious considerations of the effect of being a nation and experiencing so many life changing people and events. Such as England looking back on empire, Russia reflecting upon Stalinist Russia, a letter from India to Pakistan about Gandhi's death, the nations reflecting on death, Prussia and religion.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

England on empire and powerlust.

England, at times, was guilty of a great lust for power. He was careful about this passion. At one point the sun never set on the British Empire: he had tasted such great power, and his loses were all the more bitter in comparison.   
In detail he could still recall the way the many colonies he no longer possessed used to bow. How they has resisted, and how they had won... those were still mysteries. But at least, with them, he had known complete domination. If only for a point.   
It was those were as powerful as he that he relished the most. There was no way to explain the satisfaction of Spain falling to his knees, or seeing France flinch when he raised a hand. His anger rivaled this joy when his subordinates exhausted his patience, turned on him, or when the crown allied with those he so enjoyed dominating. America tested this desire, as he watched that boy that had been his to subdue grow into an entity even more powerful than he. The “superpower” should be saying his named with fear, with the reverence of unquestioning service. War tested him further, the Cold War infuriated him. The world was no longer his plaything. Nothing frustrated him more.   
At times, now stepping into the 21st century, he liked to believe that this lust was not so strong. Yet, he knew in his heart it would never quite be tempered. As conflicting as the fire of his desires were with his honor as a gentleman, he could not stop the feelings that were as innate to him as a carnivores need for blood.


	2. Stalinist Russia

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Russia looking back on Stalinist Russia

I can still smell blood, as clearly as I can taste imported wine, and it seems to me that nothing could have changed.  
Some days I feel like a ghost wandering these streets. I pass by in spirit, but my body remains back in those repressed years. Caught in a loop of late night meetings, soldier’s parades, and constant arrests. The radio static, to me, still carries the news of trials- endless trials. There is never enough noise in the Kremlin to cover the echoes of gunshots. There will never be enough noise to block out the sound of his voice...  
I sit in my small office and expect time after time to hear reports come in from his office, to receive new orders from the NKVD. At night each passing car recalls the black limousines that we so feared, and still I am too afraid to pray. Sleeping at night feels wrong, and I dream of the long hours spent standing behind the table he was head of watching men sitting below their portraits praising their fatherland, praising me, as though I wasn’t really there. As though those portraits weren’t already marking graves. The white paint as white as their cheeks as white as the snow so many were covered in during that “patriotic war” until I cannot tell the living from the dead any longer...   
In those years I was a monster, a victim, a dream, a broken promise, and he was hope. He was a beginning, an end, a God... I was changed irrevocably, by his will. His cruelty. His power. His dream.   
They buried him without following orders. They buried him with dirt alone, when they were commanded to use slabs of concrete. I wish they had obeyed orders.  
... I miss him. I miss the smell of tobacco and grand celebrations every October. I miss the company of so large a territory. I miss the fear in the eyes of my enemies... being powerful enough to have enemies.  
I miss some 20 million people...


	3. India's letter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A letter from India to Pakistan on the anniversary of Gandhi's death

Dear Pakistan,

Are you thinking about him too? Today is that anniversary, again. Gandhi’s death. I remember it so clearly. I felt so relieved, even as my heart clenched in sorrow, because the fighting ceased almost immediately. He won in death, as he freed us in life...  
How far back are you remembering? All the way back, to when we were under British subjugation? To the first time we saw him?  
It was such a big deal getting dressed up and ready for England’s visits. The vessel must be perfect. And that’s all we were- his vessel.  
Remember how angry he was when we wore instead that white homespun cloth- the one Gandhi himself made for us. I was so scared looking into those burning emerald eyes... I was so excited at the promise of change.  
We did such amazing things, such impossible things. Those days of fear, of imprisonment, it was all infused with such purpose! Such excitement! Remember that? My heart beats faster recalling his campaigns, even now...  
You know, and I hate to write this, because I know you are probably dodging it as well- but in those days, when we danced as one laughing in triumph, both humbled and yet also raised up by one extraordinary man, the soul of our nation!, I never expected to be laying alone. Drowning in blood...  
Our success, our separate freedoms... we forgot a lot in those days didn’t we? Maybe we were too excited and too giddy on our new separation, our new ability to do as we wished... that we forgot his greatest lesson: love.   
I’m not going to claim that there is a great love now. I’m just writing to remember. Because you know better than anyone. That’s why it stopped- that’s how he saved us, not only in life but in death. Remember what he said? That no matter Hindu or Muslim we have the same God, regardless of nomenclature. I think about that sometimes. I think about us, and our current issues.   
I also think it’s good to remember, too. Especially today...

Love,   
India


	4. The Birth of a Nation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> England returns from an extended absence to his colonies only to find that they may not want him back at all.

England had not been pleased upon his return to his colonies. That had always been the key: his colonies. They had belonged to him, and were a part of him. There wasn’t supposed to be a distinction. He had known they felt distant, but this- this was not acceptable.   
A shaky young man had stood before him; and looked for all the land he was trying to claim like the sort of uneasy mutt it would produce. England towered over him, a vision in gold and scarlet, the might of a global empire behind his confidence.   
“You’re back”  
England acknowledged the mulatto boy’s observation with the slightest tilt of his head; his lip having curled with the movement.   
“And what do you presume yourself to be? A nation?”  
That question made the poor creature hesitate. England couldn’t blame him: pilgrims, misfits, and slaves that have been alone a few generations are hardly a platform for greatness. Why, the most solid thing about this child- this inkling of an idea- was those vivid blue eyes, and even they were only alight with hope. Hope, nothing but possibilities, an easily crushed rebellion of thought: that was what his existence clung to. He was an unsteady idea and nothing more.   
“... yes... I think I am.”   
His answer was as timid as his people’s belief in him. England stepped closer, a move of power, driven by his anger in this bunch of colonists, and their vapid avatar.   
“You are loyal to the British Empire.”   
It was not a question and, yet, the wretched thing hesitated again. Not a moment spared, England backhanded it; the new nation did not cry out as he fell down, and returned to where he belonged.   
“You are loyal.” England repeated. He did not bend down to the mulatto’s level. He knew his place.  
“Yes.”  
An immediate answer was given, and it was the strongest one. England had come the closest to smiling since he stepped down from the ship, and saw this wraith- the imagination of small disobedient children. He had not been concerned at the change in tone when the young man faced opposition. Because England had not seen unity in that yes: he had seen submission. A ragtag bunch of colonies playing at global politics was no threat! This thing, this broken, wretched, weak nation who stands on hope and separation would never last. And England had known, in every fiber of what made his own power possible, that he would smother this “nation”. Crush any ideas of parting from his Empire by destroying their false idol.   
“Remember that.”  
England was going to make the young man’s life a short one. Of this, he had had no doubt.   
* * *  
“Ig. Iggy. Igland! Hey!!”   
England’s head snaps up. “What?”   
“I was waiting for you. C’mon! What’re you thinkin’ ‘bout?” The nation leans effortlessly against the lounge table England is sitting at. He moves with the assured confidence of an international superpower. His darker complexion is a mark of immigrants, of differences; things that make him strong inside and out. His vivid blue eyes are alight with the faith of millions.   
“Nothing important...”  
America towers over England.  
“Then hurry up!”   
“Fine... fine.”  
America shifts off the table with a grin. He does not attempt to help England. He knows his place.


	5. 9/11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> America eight days after 9/11

Sept. 19, 2001  
America regards one of the model planes hanging from his ceiling with a unique numbness. After a moment he reaches up and gently plucks it from its string, holding the plane in his palm. He’s always loved planes; he’s always collected these kinds of models. This one is a typical commercial jet. It’s a lot like the one that...  
The edges of the plastic wings bite into his hand, which is burned and calloused from almost eight straight days of frantic work, as the thought makes him tense before he can complete it.   
God, why?  
Why would anyone even consider using a commercial jet like that? Why would anyone see look at this fantastic innovation... and see a missile?   
But, then, who would have thought to split an atom? What kind of cruel minds would test bombs on populated islands, just to see? Who could have seen the way a serum killed plants, and thought to spray it from above on all living things below? Why would anyone use passengers on a cruise liner as a camouflage to transport weapons? How could a government test a psychedelic drug on a town of innocent people, on their own people? Why would anyone use think to use water boarding, mustard gas, carpet bombs—  
A crunch snaps America from these thoughts. Without meaning to his hand has curled into a fist, easily crushing the small plane. He tries to force himself to relax; his fingers shaking as he uncurls them from around the broken pieces of his commercial jet. The tail end tumbles from his palm; it hits the carpet without a sound.   
America stares at the wreckage. After a long moment of solemn silence he gently brushes the plastic pieces from his hand onto his desk. He has to keep evolving, or he’ll fall behind. He never wants to see another broken wing, another pile of wreckage that belongs to him...  
Peace is just a game of innovation...


	6. Death of a Nation

When Russia mentions death there is an imperceptible flinch in the room. He does it causally. Why wouldn’t he? He has died so many times.

            America’s hand still flutters up, aimlessly, as though to touch an old scar, but there are too many. He is still young, and he moves unconsciously. His is the age of bullets, explosions, and distant violence. He knows well the pain of a gunshot. That doesn’t mean anything anymore. He knows what it is to become nothing at the touch of a button; the feeling of fire before the force of scientific progress strips flesh from bone. You still come back from nothing, when you’re not human. He always came back.

            England knows these things. He knows fire more intimately. After what feels like an eternity it stops hurting. The powerful belief of his people drove him back. You can come back from ash. He never felt like a phoenix.

            France knows defeat when bringing blade against blade. The piercing is symbolic; his heart beating itself to shreds as though he could really die when he never does. He falls to his knees, not animated by blood or a heartbeat. You recover from mortal wounds. He still fights as though he can die because others can.

            Spain, God knows, has drowned more times than he can remember. It burns when the water fills his lungs. Salt water is worse. You can still get back to shore, even if it takes hours. He doesn’t _need_ to breath.

            Germany, Italy, and Japan died in that grand war. They did not make their pact to lose. They could have died and never come back, the stakes they gambled. The stroke of a pen can cease the driving force that brings you back and back and back… They knew death dearly enough to dare to risk their lives.

            China is older than all of them. He knows death in nearly every form. He almost knows rebirth. He could laugh at most of the stories the others tell; that though does not cross his mind. They may all argue but there is one thing they understand.

            Russia has mentioned death. There was an imperceptible flinch in the room. All of them thought of it, briefly, in flashes and moments without words, but none dwell. Why would they? They have all died so many times.            


	7. Prussia's Faith

Gilbert Beilschmidt enters the small French church before he can think about it. He pauses in the entryway. When he decides to move down the aisle his tall black boots click against the tiles. The sound is a harsh one, and Gilbert finds himself wanting something soft to absorb the impacts. He was going to go back to camp. He hadn’t meant to stop. The vestiges of war still cling to his immaculately pressed uniform.   
He stops just before the alter, the statue of the Virgin Mary with her arms outspread. Both heels click together, falling into attention. I haven’t been home in a while. Gilbert’s eyes narrow, surveying the statue and empty, dark pews as he would hostile territory. Isn’t this hostile territory? He had destroyed the French armies here. The thought does not bring a smile to his face as it did a moment ago. He meets the eyes of the Mother, they stare back into him, a reflection.   
A worn kneeler sits before the alter and he considers it for a long time. Around him the sounds of war ring, the bullets, the explosions, the screams; an illusion, he knows this, outside there is calm. Gently, as though he might scare this willingness away, he kneels. The material of his pants brush the soft velvet of the cushion that so many others have used before him, his enemies. My Heavenly Father… Gilbert bows his head but cannot bring himself to pray. He grits his teeth.   
What right do I have? He knows what the results of judgment day will be, when it comes. Never has he asked any of the people he hurt to forgive him. He did not expect forgiveness for his actions, did not think it deserved. How could he beg the Divine for something he did not owe himself? I’ll come back home, one night.   
He stands again, alone in the church, a soldier first.


End file.
